Volume Two—Chapter Seven.

Volume Two—Chapter Seven.Starlight Doings.It was astonishing how great the interest in the stars had now become in the neighbourhood of Brackley. Glynne was studying hard so as to learn something of the wondrous orbs of whose astounding nature Moray Alleyne loved to speak; and now Philip Oldroyd had told himself that it would be far better if he were not quite so ignorant on matters astronomical.The result was that he had purchased a book or two giving accounts of the Royal Observatory, the peculiarities of the different instruments used, the various objects most studied; and in these works he was coaching himself up as fast as he could on the present night—having “a comfortable read” as he called it, before going to bed—when there came a bit of a novelty for him, a sudden summons to go and see a patient.“What’s the matter?” he said, going to the door to answer the call, after a glance at his watch, to see that it was half-past twelve.“Well, sir,” said the messenger, Caleb Kent, “it’s mate o’ mine hurt hissen like, somehow. Met of a fall, I think.”“Fall, eh? Where is he hurt?”“Mostlings ’bout the ’ead, sir, but he’s a bit touched all over.”“What did he fall off—a cart?”“No, sir, it warn’t off a cart. Hadn’t you better come and see him, sir?”“Of course, my man, but I don’t want to go away from home, and then find I might have taken something, and saved my patient a great deal of suffering.”“Yes, sir; quite right, sir,” said the man mysteriously; “well, you see, sir, I can’t talk about it like. It weer a fall certainly, but some one made him fall.”“Oh, a fight, eh?”“Yes, sir; there was a bit of a fight.”“Well, if your mate has been fighting, is he bad enough to want a doctor?”“He’s down bad, sir. It warn’t fisties.”“Sticks?”The man nodded.“Anything worse?”“Well, sir, I didn’t mean to speak about it, but it weer.”“I think I have it,” thought Oldroyd. “The man has been shot in a poaching affray. Where is it?” he said aloud.“Lars cottage through Lindham, sir. Tile roof.”“Six miles away?”“Yes, sir; ’bout six miles.”As Oldroyd spoke, he was busily thrusting a case or two and some lint into his pockets, and filling a couple of small phials; after which he buttoned up his coat and put out his lamp.“Now, then, my man, I must just call at the mill, and then I’m ready for you.”“Going to walk, sir?” said the messenger.“No; I’m going to get the miller’s pony. I’m sorry I can’t offer to drive you back.”“Never you mind about me, sir. I can get over the ground,” said the man; and following Oldroyd down the lane, he stopped with him at a long low cottage, close beside the dammed up river, where a couple of sharp raps caused a casement to be opened.“You, doctor?” said a voice; and on receiving an answer in the affirmative, there was the word “catch,” and Oldroyd cleverly caught a key attached by a string to a very large horse-chestnut. Then the casement was closed, and the two went round to the stable, where a stout pony’s slumbers were interrupted, and the patient beast saddled and bridled and led out, ready to spread its four legs as far apart as possible when the young doctor mounted as if afraid of being pulled over by his weight.“Now, then,” said Oldroyd, relocking the door, “forward as fast as you like. When you’re tired I’ll get down.”“Oh, I sha’n’t be tired,” said the man, quietly; and he started off at a regular dog-trot. “That there pony’ll go anywhere, sir, so I shall take the short cuts.”“Mind the boggy bits, my man.”“You needn’t be skeard about them, sir; that there pony wouldn’t near one if you tried to make him.”Oldroyd nodded, and the man trotted to the front, the pony following, and, in spite of two or three proposals that they should change places, the guide kept on in the same untiring manner.Here and there, though, when they had passed the common, and were ascending the hills, the man took hold of the pony’s mane, and trudged by the side; and during these times Oldroyd learned all about the fight in the fir wood.“Whose place was it at?” said Oldroyd at last.“Sir John Day’s, sir.”After that they proceeded in silence till they reached the first houses of a long, straggling hamlet, when a thought occurred to Oldroyd to which he at once gave utterance.“I say, my man, why didn’t you go to Doctor Blunt? He was two miles nearer to you than I am.”Caleb laughed hoarsely, and shook his head.Oldroyd checked his willing little mount at a long, low cottage beside the road, and went down the strip of garden. Three men were at the door, and they made way for him, touching their hats in a surly fashion as he came up.“Know how he is?” said Oldroyd, sharply.“Bout gone, sir. Glad you’ve come,” said one of the men; and Oldroyd raised the latch and went into the low-ceiled kitchen, where a tallow candle was burning in a lantern, but there was no one there.“Here’s the doctor, miss,” said the man who had before spoken, crossing to a doorway opening at once upon a staircase, when a frightened-looking girl, with red eyes and a scared look upon her countenance, came hurrying downstairs.“Would you please to come up, sir,” she said. “Oh. I am so glad you’ve come.”Oldroyd followed her up the creaking staircase, and had to stoop to enter the sloping-ceiled room, where, with another pale, scared woman kneeling beside the bed, and a long, snuffed candle upon an old chest of drawers, giving a doleful, ghastly light, lay a big, black-whiskered, shaggy-haired man, his face pinched and white, and plenty of tokens about of the terrible wound he had received.Oldroyd went at once to the bed, made a hurried examination, took out his case, and for the next half hour he was busy trying to staunch the bleeding, and place some effectual bandages upon the wound.All this time the man never opened his eyes, but lay with his teeth clenched, and lips nipped so closely together, that they seemed to form a thin line across the lower part of his face. Oldroyd knew that he must be giving the man terrible pain, but he did not shrink, bearing it all stoically, if he was conscious, though there were times when his attendant thought he must be perfectly insensible to what was going on.The women obeyed the slightest hint, and worked hard; but all the while Oldroyd felt that he had been called upon too late, and that the man must sink from utter exhaustion.To his surprise, however, just as he finished his task, and was bending over his patient counting the pulsation in the wrist, the man unclosed his eyes, and looked up at him.“Well, doctor,” he said, coolly; “what’s it to be—go or stay?”“Life, I hope,” replied Oldroyd, as he read the energy and determination of the man’s nature. This was not one who would give up without a struggle, for his bearing during the past half hour had been heroic.“Glad of it,” sighed the wounded man. “I haven’t done yet; and to-night’s work has given me a fresh job on hand.”“Now, keep perfectly still and do not speak,” said Oldroyd, sternly. “Everything depends upon your being at rest. Sleep if you can. I will stop till morning to see that the bleeding does not break out again.”“Thankye, doctor,” said the man gruffly; and just then a pair of warm lips were pressed upon Oldroyd’s hand, and he turned sharply.“Hallo!” he said. “I’ve been so busy that I did not notice you. I’ve seen your face before.”“Yes, sir; I met you once near The Warren—Mrs Rolph’s.”“Thought I’d seen you. But you—are you his wife?”“No,” said the girl, smiling faintly. “This is my father.”“What an absurd blunder. Why, of course, I remember now. I did not know him again. It’s Mrs Rolph’s keeper.”The flush that came into the girl’s face was visible even by the faint light of the miserable tallow candle, as Oldroyd went on in a low voice,—“Poor fellow! I misjudged him. I took him for a poacher, and its the other way on. The scoundrels! No, no, don’t give way,” whispered Oldroyd, as the girl let her face fall into her hands and began to sob convulsively. “There, there: cheer up. We won’t let him die. You and I will pull him through, please God. Hush! quietness is everything. Go and tell those men to be still, and say I shall not want the pony till six or seven o’clock. One of them must be ready, though, in case I want a messenger to run to the town.”Oldroyd’s words had their effect, for a dead silence fell upon the place, and the injured man soon slept quietly, lying so still, that Judith, after her return, sought the young doctor’s eyes from time to time, asking dumbly whether he was sure that something terrible had not occurred.At such times Oldroyd rose, bent over his patient and satisfied himself that all was going well before turning to his fellow-watcher and giving her an encouraging smile.Then there would be a weary sigh, that told of relief from an anxiety full of dread, and the night wore on.For a time, Oldroyd, as he sat there in that dreary room, glancing occasionally at the dull, unsnuffed candle, fancied that the men had stolen away, but he would soon know that he was wrong, for the faint odour of their bad tobacco came stealing up through the window, and he knew as well as if he were present that they were sitting about on the fence or lounging against the walls of the cottage.Between three and four, the critical time of the twenty-four hours, when life is at its lowest ebb, a sigh came from the bed, and the sufferer grew restless to a degree that made Oldroyd begin to be doubtful, but the little uneasy fit passed off, and there was utter silence once again.Philip Oldroyd’s thoughts wandered far during this time of watching; now his imagination raised for his mental gaze the scene of the desperate encounter, and he seemed to see the blows struck, hear the oaths and fierce cries, succeeded by the report of the gun, and the groan of the injured man as he fell.Then that scene seemed to pass away, and the room at The Firs came into sight, with its grim, blank look, the stiff figure of Mrs Alleyne; calm, deeply absorbed Alleyne; and the sunshine of the whole place, Lucy, who seemed to turn what was blank and repulsive into all that was bright and gay.As he thought on of Lucy all the gloom and ghastliness of that wretched cottage garret faded away, a pleasant glow of satisfaction came over him, and he sat there building dreamy castles of a bright and prosperous kind, and putting Lucy in each, forgetting for the time the poverty of his practice, his own comparatively hopeless state, and the chances that she, whom he now owned that he worshipped, would be carried off by some one more successful in the world.Did he love Lucy? Yes, he told himself, he was afraid he did—afraid, for it seemed so hopeless an affair. Did she love him? No, he dared not think that, but at one time, during the most weary portion of the watching, he could not help wishing that she might fall ill, and the duty be his to bring her back to health and strength.He was angry with himself directly after, though he owned that such a trouble might fill her with gratitude towards him, and gratitude was a step towards love.In the midst of these thoughts Oldroyd made himself more angry still, for he inadvertently sighed, with the effect of making the women start, and Judith gaze at him wonderingly. To take off their attention he softly shifted his seat, and began once more to think of his patient and his chances of life.The poor fellow was sleeping easily, and so far there were no signs of the feverish symptoms that follow wounds.The night wore on; the candle burned down in the socket, and was replaced by another, which in its turn burned out, and its successor was growing short when the twitterings of the birds were heard, and the ghostly dawn came stealing into that cheerless, whitewashed room, whose occupants’ faces seemed to have taken their hue from the ceiling.The injured man still slept, and his breathing was low and regular, encouraged by which the countenances of the women were beginning to lose their despairing, scared aspect, as they glanced from doctor to patient, and back again.At last the cold and pallid light of the room gave place to a warm red glow, and Oldroyd went softly to the window to see the rising sun, thinking the while what a dreary life was his, called from his comfortable home to come some six miles in the dead of the night to such a ghastly scene as this, and then to sit and watch, his payment probably the thanks of the poor people he had served.The east was one glow of orange and gold, and the beauty of the scene, with the dewy grass and trees glittering in the morning light, chased away the mental shadows of the night.“Not so bad a life after all,” he said to himself. “Money’s very nice, but a man can’t devote his life to greed. What a glorious morning, and how I should like a cup of tea.”He turned to look at his patient, and found that the woman had gone, while Judith now asked him in an imploring whisper if there was any hope.“Hope? Yes,” he replied, “it would have killed some men, but look at your father’s physique. Why, he is as strong as a horse. Take care of him and keep him quiet. Let him sleep all he can.”Judith glanced at the wounded man, and then at Oldroyd, to whisper at last piteously, and after a good deal of hesitation,—“The police, sir: if they come, they mustn’t take him away, must they?”“Take him away?” said Oldroyd, wonderingly, “certainly not. I say he must not be moved. Here, I’ll write it down for you. It would be his death.”He drew out his pocket-book to write a certificate as to the man’s state, and Judith took it, with an air approaching veneration, to fold it and place it in her bosom.Just then the woman returned, and, after a whispering with Judith, asked Oldroyd to come down.He glanced once more at his patient, and then followed the girl downstairs, where, in a rough but cleanly way, a cup of tea had been prepared and some bread and butter.These proved to be so good that, feeling better for the refreshment, Oldroyd could not help noticing that, but for the traces of violent grief, Judith would have been extremely pretty.“Will father get better, sir?” said the girl, pleadingly.“Better? Yes, my girl,” said Oldroyd, wondering at the rustic maiden’s good looks. “There, there, don’t be foolish,” he continued, as the girl caught his hand to kiss it.She shrank away, and coloured a little, when Oldroyd hastened to add more pleasantly,—“I think he’ll soon be better.”She gave him a bright, grateful look through her tears, and then hurriedly shrank away.“Hah! that’s better,” he said to himself, as he went on with his simple meal. “A cup of tea, and a little sunshine, what a difference they do make in a man’s sensations. Humph! past six. No bed for me till to-night,” he exclaimed, as he glanced at his watch; and rising, he went softly upstairs once more, to find that his patient was still sleeping, with Judith watching by his pillow.Oldroyd just nodded to her, and made a motion with one finger that she should come to his side.“I’ll ride over in the afternoon,” he whispered; and then he went quietly down, said “good-morning” to the woman waiting, and with the sensation upon him that the night’s work did not seem so horrible now that the sun had risen, he stepped out.

It was astonishing how great the interest in the stars had now become in the neighbourhood of Brackley. Glynne was studying hard so as to learn something of the wondrous orbs of whose astounding nature Moray Alleyne loved to speak; and now Philip Oldroyd had told himself that it would be far better if he were not quite so ignorant on matters astronomical.

The result was that he had purchased a book or two giving accounts of the Royal Observatory, the peculiarities of the different instruments used, the various objects most studied; and in these works he was coaching himself up as fast as he could on the present night—having “a comfortable read” as he called it, before going to bed—when there came a bit of a novelty for him, a sudden summons to go and see a patient.

“What’s the matter?” he said, going to the door to answer the call, after a glance at his watch, to see that it was half-past twelve.

“Well, sir,” said the messenger, Caleb Kent, “it’s mate o’ mine hurt hissen like, somehow. Met of a fall, I think.”

“Fall, eh? Where is he hurt?”

“Mostlings ’bout the ’ead, sir, but he’s a bit touched all over.”

“What did he fall off—a cart?”

“No, sir, it warn’t off a cart. Hadn’t you better come and see him, sir?”

“Of course, my man, but I don’t want to go away from home, and then find I might have taken something, and saved my patient a great deal of suffering.”

“Yes, sir; quite right, sir,” said the man mysteriously; “well, you see, sir, I can’t talk about it like. It weer a fall certainly, but some one made him fall.”

“Oh, a fight, eh?”

“Yes, sir; there was a bit of a fight.”

“Well, if your mate has been fighting, is he bad enough to want a doctor?”

“He’s down bad, sir. It warn’t fisties.”

“Sticks?”

The man nodded.

“Anything worse?”

“Well, sir, I didn’t mean to speak about it, but it weer.”

“I think I have it,” thought Oldroyd. “The man has been shot in a poaching affray. Where is it?” he said aloud.

“Lars cottage through Lindham, sir. Tile roof.”

“Six miles away?”

“Yes, sir; ’bout six miles.”

As Oldroyd spoke, he was busily thrusting a case or two and some lint into his pockets, and filling a couple of small phials; after which he buttoned up his coat and put out his lamp.

“Now, then, my man, I must just call at the mill, and then I’m ready for you.”

“Going to walk, sir?” said the messenger.

“No; I’m going to get the miller’s pony. I’m sorry I can’t offer to drive you back.”

“Never you mind about me, sir. I can get over the ground,” said the man; and following Oldroyd down the lane, he stopped with him at a long low cottage, close beside the dammed up river, where a couple of sharp raps caused a casement to be opened.

“You, doctor?” said a voice; and on receiving an answer in the affirmative, there was the word “catch,” and Oldroyd cleverly caught a key attached by a string to a very large horse-chestnut. Then the casement was closed, and the two went round to the stable, where a stout pony’s slumbers were interrupted, and the patient beast saddled and bridled and led out, ready to spread its four legs as far apart as possible when the young doctor mounted as if afraid of being pulled over by his weight.

“Now, then,” said Oldroyd, relocking the door, “forward as fast as you like. When you’re tired I’ll get down.”

“Oh, I sha’n’t be tired,” said the man, quietly; and he started off at a regular dog-trot. “That there pony’ll go anywhere, sir, so I shall take the short cuts.”

“Mind the boggy bits, my man.”

“You needn’t be skeard about them, sir; that there pony wouldn’t near one if you tried to make him.”

Oldroyd nodded, and the man trotted to the front, the pony following, and, in spite of two or three proposals that they should change places, the guide kept on in the same untiring manner.

Here and there, though, when they had passed the common, and were ascending the hills, the man took hold of the pony’s mane, and trudged by the side; and during these times Oldroyd learned all about the fight in the fir wood.

“Whose place was it at?” said Oldroyd at last.

“Sir John Day’s, sir.”

After that they proceeded in silence till they reached the first houses of a long, straggling hamlet, when a thought occurred to Oldroyd to which he at once gave utterance.

“I say, my man, why didn’t you go to Doctor Blunt? He was two miles nearer to you than I am.”

Caleb laughed hoarsely, and shook his head.

Oldroyd checked his willing little mount at a long, low cottage beside the road, and went down the strip of garden. Three men were at the door, and they made way for him, touching their hats in a surly fashion as he came up.

“Know how he is?” said Oldroyd, sharply.

“Bout gone, sir. Glad you’ve come,” said one of the men; and Oldroyd raised the latch and went into the low-ceiled kitchen, where a tallow candle was burning in a lantern, but there was no one there.

“Here’s the doctor, miss,” said the man who had before spoken, crossing to a doorway opening at once upon a staircase, when a frightened-looking girl, with red eyes and a scared look upon her countenance, came hurrying downstairs.

“Would you please to come up, sir,” she said. “Oh. I am so glad you’ve come.”

Oldroyd followed her up the creaking staircase, and had to stoop to enter the sloping-ceiled room, where, with another pale, scared woman kneeling beside the bed, and a long, snuffed candle upon an old chest of drawers, giving a doleful, ghastly light, lay a big, black-whiskered, shaggy-haired man, his face pinched and white, and plenty of tokens about of the terrible wound he had received.

Oldroyd went at once to the bed, made a hurried examination, took out his case, and for the next half hour he was busy trying to staunch the bleeding, and place some effectual bandages upon the wound.

All this time the man never opened his eyes, but lay with his teeth clenched, and lips nipped so closely together, that they seemed to form a thin line across the lower part of his face. Oldroyd knew that he must be giving the man terrible pain, but he did not shrink, bearing it all stoically, if he was conscious, though there were times when his attendant thought he must be perfectly insensible to what was going on.

The women obeyed the slightest hint, and worked hard; but all the while Oldroyd felt that he had been called upon too late, and that the man must sink from utter exhaustion.

To his surprise, however, just as he finished his task, and was bending over his patient counting the pulsation in the wrist, the man unclosed his eyes, and looked up at him.

“Well, doctor,” he said, coolly; “what’s it to be—go or stay?”

“Life, I hope,” replied Oldroyd, as he read the energy and determination of the man’s nature. This was not one who would give up without a struggle, for his bearing during the past half hour had been heroic.

“Glad of it,” sighed the wounded man. “I haven’t done yet; and to-night’s work has given me a fresh job on hand.”

“Now, keep perfectly still and do not speak,” said Oldroyd, sternly. “Everything depends upon your being at rest. Sleep if you can. I will stop till morning to see that the bleeding does not break out again.”

“Thankye, doctor,” said the man gruffly; and just then a pair of warm lips were pressed upon Oldroyd’s hand, and he turned sharply.

“Hallo!” he said. “I’ve been so busy that I did not notice you. I’ve seen your face before.”

“Yes, sir; I met you once near The Warren—Mrs Rolph’s.”

“Thought I’d seen you. But you—are you his wife?”

“No,” said the girl, smiling faintly. “This is my father.”

“What an absurd blunder. Why, of course, I remember now. I did not know him again. It’s Mrs Rolph’s keeper.”

The flush that came into the girl’s face was visible even by the faint light of the miserable tallow candle, as Oldroyd went on in a low voice,—

“Poor fellow! I misjudged him. I took him for a poacher, and its the other way on. The scoundrels! No, no, don’t give way,” whispered Oldroyd, as the girl let her face fall into her hands and began to sob convulsively. “There, there: cheer up. We won’t let him die. You and I will pull him through, please God. Hush! quietness is everything. Go and tell those men to be still, and say I shall not want the pony till six or seven o’clock. One of them must be ready, though, in case I want a messenger to run to the town.”

Oldroyd’s words had their effect, for a dead silence fell upon the place, and the injured man soon slept quietly, lying so still, that Judith, after her return, sought the young doctor’s eyes from time to time, asking dumbly whether he was sure that something terrible had not occurred.

At such times Oldroyd rose, bent over his patient and satisfied himself that all was going well before turning to his fellow-watcher and giving her an encouraging smile.

Then there would be a weary sigh, that told of relief from an anxiety full of dread, and the night wore on.

For a time, Oldroyd, as he sat there in that dreary room, glancing occasionally at the dull, unsnuffed candle, fancied that the men had stolen away, but he would soon know that he was wrong, for the faint odour of their bad tobacco came stealing up through the window, and he knew as well as if he were present that they were sitting about on the fence or lounging against the walls of the cottage.

Between three and four, the critical time of the twenty-four hours, when life is at its lowest ebb, a sigh came from the bed, and the sufferer grew restless to a degree that made Oldroyd begin to be doubtful, but the little uneasy fit passed off, and there was utter silence once again.

Philip Oldroyd’s thoughts wandered far during this time of watching; now his imagination raised for his mental gaze the scene of the desperate encounter, and he seemed to see the blows struck, hear the oaths and fierce cries, succeeded by the report of the gun, and the groan of the injured man as he fell.

Then that scene seemed to pass away, and the room at The Firs came into sight, with its grim, blank look, the stiff figure of Mrs Alleyne; calm, deeply absorbed Alleyne; and the sunshine of the whole place, Lucy, who seemed to turn what was blank and repulsive into all that was bright and gay.

As he thought on of Lucy all the gloom and ghastliness of that wretched cottage garret faded away, a pleasant glow of satisfaction came over him, and he sat there building dreamy castles of a bright and prosperous kind, and putting Lucy in each, forgetting for the time the poverty of his practice, his own comparatively hopeless state, and the chances that she, whom he now owned that he worshipped, would be carried off by some one more successful in the world.

Did he love Lucy? Yes, he told himself, he was afraid he did—afraid, for it seemed so hopeless an affair. Did she love him? No, he dared not think that, but at one time, during the most weary portion of the watching, he could not help wishing that she might fall ill, and the duty be his to bring her back to health and strength.

He was angry with himself directly after, though he owned that such a trouble might fill her with gratitude towards him, and gratitude was a step towards love.

In the midst of these thoughts Oldroyd made himself more angry still, for he inadvertently sighed, with the effect of making the women start, and Judith gaze at him wonderingly. To take off their attention he softly shifted his seat, and began once more to think of his patient and his chances of life.

The poor fellow was sleeping easily, and so far there were no signs of the feverish symptoms that follow wounds.

The night wore on; the candle burned down in the socket, and was replaced by another, which in its turn burned out, and its successor was growing short when the twitterings of the birds were heard, and the ghostly dawn came stealing into that cheerless, whitewashed room, whose occupants’ faces seemed to have taken their hue from the ceiling.

The injured man still slept, and his breathing was low and regular, encouraged by which the countenances of the women were beginning to lose their despairing, scared aspect, as they glanced from doctor to patient, and back again.

At last the cold and pallid light of the room gave place to a warm red glow, and Oldroyd went softly to the window to see the rising sun, thinking the while what a dreary life was his, called from his comfortable home to come some six miles in the dead of the night to such a ghastly scene as this, and then to sit and watch, his payment probably the thanks of the poor people he had served.

The east was one glow of orange and gold, and the beauty of the scene, with the dewy grass and trees glittering in the morning light, chased away the mental shadows of the night.

“Not so bad a life after all,” he said to himself. “Money’s very nice, but a man can’t devote his life to greed. What a glorious morning, and how I should like a cup of tea.”

He turned to look at his patient, and found that the woman had gone, while Judith now asked him in an imploring whisper if there was any hope.

“Hope? Yes,” he replied, “it would have killed some men, but look at your father’s physique. Why, he is as strong as a horse. Take care of him and keep him quiet. Let him sleep all he can.”

Judith glanced at the wounded man, and then at Oldroyd, to whisper at last piteously, and after a good deal of hesitation,—

“The police, sir: if they come, they mustn’t take him away, must they?”

“Take him away?” said Oldroyd, wonderingly, “certainly not. I say he must not be moved. Here, I’ll write it down for you. It would be his death.”

He drew out his pocket-book to write a certificate as to the man’s state, and Judith took it, with an air approaching veneration, to fold it and place it in her bosom.

Just then the woman returned, and, after a whispering with Judith, asked Oldroyd to come down.

He glanced once more at his patient, and then followed the girl downstairs, where, in a rough but cleanly way, a cup of tea had been prepared and some bread and butter.

These proved to be so good that, feeling better for the refreshment, Oldroyd could not help noticing that, but for the traces of violent grief, Judith would have been extremely pretty.

“Will father get better, sir?” said the girl, pleadingly.

“Better? Yes, my girl,” said Oldroyd, wondering at the rustic maiden’s good looks. “There, there, don’t be foolish,” he continued, as the girl caught his hand to kiss it.

She shrank away, and coloured a little, when Oldroyd hastened to add more pleasantly,—

“I think he’ll soon be better.”

She gave him a bright, grateful look through her tears, and then hurriedly shrank away.

“Hah! that’s better,” he said to himself, as he went on with his simple meal. “A cup of tea, and a little sunshine, what a difference they do make in a man’s sensations. Humph! past six. No bed for me till to-night,” he exclaimed, as he glanced at his watch; and rising, he went softly upstairs once more, to find that his patient was still sleeping, with Judith watching by his pillow.

Oldroyd just nodded to her, and made a motion with one finger that she should come to his side.

“I’ll ride over in the afternoon,” he whispered; and then he went quietly down, said “good-morning” to the woman waiting, and with the sensation upon him that the night’s work did not seem so horrible now that the sun had risen, he stepped out.

Volume Two—Chapter Eight.Why the Slugs Ate Lucy’s Mushrooms.Three men, one of whom was the last night’s messenger, Caleb Kent, a stranger to Oldroyd, were lounging about by the cottage gate as the doctor stepped out, and their looks asked the question they longed to have answered.“I think he’ll get over it, my men,” said Oldroyd. “It’s a narrow escape for him, though, if he does pull through.”The men exchanged glances.“I suppose you’ll have the police over before long, and—What’s the matter?”The men were looking sharply down the road.“I mean they’ll want to question him about the scoundrels who did this work.”“It warn’t no scoundrels, did it, doctor,” said Caleb Kent, with a vicious snarl.“But I took it that the keeper had been shot by poachers.”“It were Cap’n Rolph shot him,” said Caleb, fiercely.“Dear me! What a sad accident.”“Accident?” cried Caleb Kent, with an ugly laugh. “Why, I see him lift his gun and take aim. It was just as I was going to hit at him.”“Nonsense, my lad: his own master.”“Arn’t no master of his’n now. Sacked nigh three months ago.”Oldroyd stared.“Here, I’m getting confused, my man. That poor fellow upstairs is a keeper, isn’t he?”“Was, sir,” said Caleb Kent, with a grin; “but he arn’t now. He was out with us after the fezzans last night.”“Hold your tongue,” growled one of the other men.“Sha’n’t. What for? Doctor won’t tell on us.”“Then it is as I thought. You are a gang of poachers, and the man upstairs is hand and glove with you.”“Well, why not, sir. They sacked him, and no one wouldn’t have him, because he used once to do a bit o’ nights hisself ’fore he turned keeper. Man can’t starve when there’s hares and fezzans about.”“Went a bit like out o’ spite,” said Caleb. “Hadn’t been out with us before.”“Humph! and you come and fetch me and tell me this,” said Oldroyd. “How do you know that I shall not go and give notice to the police?”“Cause we know’d better. Caleb here was going to fetch old Blunt from the town; but I says if you fetch him, he’ll go back and tell the police.”“And how do you know that I shall not?” said Oldroyd, tartly.“Gent as goes out of his way to tent a poor labrer’s wife when her chap’s out o’ work, and does so much for the old folks, arn’t likely to do such a dirty trick as that. Eh, mates?”“Humph! you seem to have a pretty good opinion of me,” said Oldroyd.“Yes, sir, we knows a gen’leman when we sees one. We’ll pay you, sir, all right. You won’t let out on us, seeing how bad the poor fellow is.”Oldroyd was silent and thoughtful for a few moments, and then he turned sharply upon Caleb Kent.“Look here, sir,” he said; “you’ve got a tongue and it runs rather too fast. You made an ugly charge against that man’s late master.”“I said I see him shute him,” said Caleb.“And you did not see anything of the kind.”“You gents allus stick up for each other,” muttered Caleb.“You could not see what took place in the darkness and excitement of a fight, so hold your tongue. Such a charge would make endless mischief, and it must be a mistake.”“All right, sir,” said Caleb.“It would upset that poor girl, too, if she heard such a thing.”“Yes, it would upset her sure enough if she heard,” said Caleb, with a peculiar smile, and he walked away.“I ought to give you fellows a lecture on the danger of night poaching,” continued Oldroyd.“Don’t, sir, please,” said one of the men, with a laugh, “for it wouldn’t do no good. ’Sides; we might want to hing a brace o’ fezzans or a hare up agin your door now and then.”“Here, don’t you do anything of the kind, my lads,” cried Oldroyd. “I forbid it, mind. Now get me my pony.”“All right, sir; we’ll mind what you says,” said the man who had spoken, looking mirthfully round at his companions, one of whom at once accompanied him to a low shed where the pony was munching some hay. The willing little beast was saddled while Oldroyd walked up and down the path with an abundance of sweet-scented and gay old-fashioned flowers on either side. Carnations and scarlet lychnis, and many-headed sun flowers and the like, were bright in the morning sunshine, for all seemed to have been well tended; but, all at once, he came upon a terrible tell-tale bit of evidence of the last night’s work upon the red bricks that formed the path—one that made him scrape off a little mould from the bed with his foot, and spread it over the ugly patch.“The cottage looks simple and innocent enough, with its roses, to be the home of peace,” he muttered. “Ah! how man does spoil his life for the sake of coin. Thank you, my lad—that’s right,” he added, as his last night’s messenger brought the pony to the gate.He mounted, and thrust a coin, that he could not spare, into his temporary ostler’s hand.“Let him go. Fine morning, isn’t it?”But Caleb held on sturdily by the pony’s bridle, and thrust the piece back with an air of sturdy independence.“No, thankye, sir,” he said. “Me and my mates don’t want paying by a gentleman as comes to help one of us. ’Sides which, we’re a-going to pay you; aren’t we, lads?”“Ay, that’s so,” growled the others. “Don’t take it.”With the cleverness of a pickpocket, but the reverse action—say of a negative and not a positive pickpocket—the florin was thrust into Oldroyd’s vest, and the man drew back, leaving the doctor to pursue his way.“Poachers even are not so black as they are painted,” he said to himself as he cantered along, and then he fell to thinking of the girl he had seen that morning. “They’ve better daughters than you would have suspected, more affectionate wives, the best of neighbours, and companions as honest and faithful as one could wish; and, all the while, they are a set of confounded scoundrels and thieves, for it’s just as dishonest to shoot and steal a man’s carefully-raised foreign birds—his pheasants—as it is to break into a hen-roost. As to partridges and hares, of course they are wild things; but, so long as they lived and bred on one’s land, they must be as genuine property as the apples and pears that grow upon a fellow’s trees. Yes, poachers are thieves; and I daresay my friend there, with the shot-hole in his body, is as great a scoundrel as the worst.”He laughed as he cantered along the soft green beside the road.“My practice is improving. I shall have my connection amongst the rogues and vagabonds mightily increased, for I certainly shall not go and inform the police: not my business to do that. They’re punished enough, even if I pull him through. And I shall,” he said aloud. “I must and will, for the sake of his pretty daughter. I wonder whether they’ll pay me after all,” he went on, as the pony ambled over the grass, and the naturally sordid ideas of the man often pressed for money and struggling for his income, came uppermost. “When people are in the first throes of excitement and gratitude for the help Doctor Bolus has rendered them, they almost worship him, and they’ll give, or rather they will promise, anything; but when time has had his turn, and the gratitude has begun to cool, it’s a different thing altogether; and, last of all, when the bill goes in—oh dear, for poor human nature, if the case had been left alone, A, B, C, or D would have got better without help.“Well, never mind,” he said merrily, for the refreshment and the delicious morning air were telling upon his spirits, “the world goes round and round all the same, and human nature is one of the things that cannot be changed.”He had to turn the pony out on to the road here, for the long green strands of the brambles were hanging right out over the grass, and catching at his legs as he cantered by. The soft mists were floating away as he began to descend the hilly slope, still at his feet the landscape seemed to be half hidden by clouds, through which hillocks, and hedge, and trees were visible, with here and there a house or a brown patch of the rough common land; and right away on the other side, stood up, grim and depressing of aspect, the ugly brick house upon the big hillock of sand, with the various and grim-looking edifices that Moray Alleyne had raised. Forming a background were the sombre fir trees with the column-topped slope and hill; and, even at that distance, he could make out, here and there, portions of the sandy lane that skirted the pine slope, which formed so striking an object in the surrounding landscape.So beautiful was the scene in the early morning, so varied the tints, that Oldroyd checked his pony, and told himself that he could not do better than pause and admire the landscape. But somehow his eyes lit upon the ugliest object there, focused themselves so as to get the most photographic idea upon the polished plate of his memory, and there they stayed, for he saw nothing else but Mrs Alleyne’s gloomy house.This, however, is not quite the fact, for in a most absurd way—for a young medical man who had been telling himself a hundred times over that it would be insanity for him to think of marrying—he furnished that gloomy picture with one figure that seemed to him to turn the whole place into a palace of beauty, of whose aspect he could never tire.“Go along!” he exclaimed aloud at last, as if to himself for his absurd thoughts; but the pony took the order as being applied to the beast of burden present, and went off at once in a good canter, one that gained spirit from the fact that he knew the way and that way was homewards.So absorbed was Oldroyd that he left the sturdy little animal to itself, and it went pretty swiftly over the driest bits of close, velvety turf, cleverly avoiding the bigger furze clumps, and reaching at last the lighter ground where the fir trees grew. Then it snorted and would have increased its pace, but there were awkward stumps here and there, and slippery places, such as the cleverest pony could not avoid, so the rider drew rein, and let the little steed amble gently along.All at once Philip Oldroyd’s heart seemed to stand still, and he checked the pony suddenly, sitting breathless and half stunned, gazing straight before him at a couple of figures passing along the road.He drew a long breath that hissed between his closed teeth; and even a pearl diver might have envied his power of retaining that breath, so long was it before he exhaled it again.Then he turned his pony’s head, bent down his darkened face till his chin rested upon his breast, and rode forward again; but the pony began to resist a change which suggested going right away from home. He drummed its ribs fiercely with his heels, and pressed it on, but only to turn its head directly after, forcing himself into a state of composure as he rode quietly by Lucy Alleyne and Rolph, and saluted them as he passed.It was hard work to ride on like that, without looking back, but he mastered himself and went quickly on for some distance before drawing rein, and sitting like a statue upon the pony, which began to graze, and only lifted its head and gave a momentary glance at Lucy, when, sobbing as if she would break her heart, the little lady nearly ran up against the waiting rider and his steed.“Mr Oldroyd!” cried Lucy, after giving vent to that astonished, frightened “Oh!”“Yes, Miss Alleyne,” he said coldly, “Mr Oldroyd.”“Why—why are you stopping me like that? Oh, I beg your pardon; good-morning!” she cried hastily, and in a quick, furtive way she swept the tears from her eyes, and wiped her pretty little nose, which crying was turning of a pinky hue.“Was I stopping you?” he said, speaking mechanically, and glancing straight before him. “I have been out all night with a patient six miles away.”“Indeed!” said Lucy, hastily; “yes, it is a beautiful morning.”She went by him without trusting herself to look in his face.“If I did so, I should burst out sobbing,” she said to herself.But by the time Lucy had gone half a score yards, Oldroyd was by her side, the pony keeping step with her, pace for pace, while the little woman’s breast was heaving with love, sorrow and despair.“What will he think? what will he think?” she kept saying to herself as she longed to lay her hands in his, and to tell him that it was no fault of hers, but an accident that Captain Rolph had met her during her walk.But she could not tell him—she dared not. It was like a confession that she cared for his opinion more than for that of anybody in the world. It would be unmaidenly, and degrading, and strange; and there was nothing for her to do but assume anger and annoyance, and treat Oldroyd as if he had been playing the part of spy.A very weak conclusion, no doubt, but it was the only one at which, in her misery, she arrived.The sun was shining now from a pure, blue sky, the birds were darting beneath the trees, where the long spider webs hung, strung with jewels, that flashed and glowed as they were passing fast away. There was a delicious aroma, too, in the soft breeze that floated from among the gloomy pines; but to those who went on, side by side, it was as if the morning had become overcast; all was stormy and grey, and life was in future to be one long course of desolation and despair. Nature was at her best, and all was beautiful; but Lucy could not see a ray of hope in the far-off future. Philip Oldroyd could see a gloomy, wasted life—the life of a man who had trusted and believed; but to find that the woman was weak and vain as the rest of her sex.They had relapsed into silence, and were going on pretty swiftly towards The Firs, but their proceedings did not seem to either to be at all strange. Lucy’s destination was, of course, home, and Oldroyd appeared resolved to accompany her; why, he knew not, and it did not trouble him after the first few minutes, seeming quite natural that he should take her to task, and he determined, as a punishment, to see her safely back. She did not deserve it, of that she was sure, but there was something comfortable and satisfactory in being thus silently scolded by one much wiser and stronger than herself.Oldroyd wished to speak. He had a good deal to say—so he felt, but not a word escaped him till they reached the steep path that ran up to the gates at The Firs, when he drew rein, and made way for Lucy to pass.“Good-bye,” he said.“Good-bye,” faltered Lucy, looking at him wistfully.He looked down into her eyes from where he sat, with his very heart ready to leap from his breast towards her; but, as he gazed, he saw again the sunny sandy road with the velvety grass, and golden-bloomed furze on either side; the long, sloping bank with its columnar pines, and the dark background of sombre green, while in front was Lucy, the girl in whom he had so believed, walking with Rolph; and then all was bitterness and cloud once more.“He was marked,” thought Oldroyd; “there was a patch of plaister on his forehead. Hang it all! could he have shot that man?”The doctor’s heart beat fast, for, in a confused fashion, light, the glimmering light upon a reflector when an image plays about the focus of a telescope, he saw difficulties dragging Captain Rolph away from that neighbourhood: a man dying of his wounds, and Lucy Alleyne turning from her idol in utter disgust.But he shook his head.“Nothing to me,” he cried, with a bitter laugh, as he rode away. “The old story—Nature asserting herself once more. A fine figure, grand muscles, a chest that is deep and round, and the noble bovine front of a bull, and you have the demi-god gentle woman makes her worship. Ah, well, it was time I awakened from a silly dream. Good-bye, little Lucy, good-bye! Next time I come to see your brother, I’ll wear the armoured jerkin of common sense. What a weak idiot I have been.”There were no mushrooms that morning for Mrs Alleyne’s breakfast; those which Lucy should have brought home lying by the wayside, whereat the slugs rejoiced and had a glorious banquet all to themselves.

Three men, one of whom was the last night’s messenger, Caleb Kent, a stranger to Oldroyd, were lounging about by the cottage gate as the doctor stepped out, and their looks asked the question they longed to have answered.

“I think he’ll get over it, my men,” said Oldroyd. “It’s a narrow escape for him, though, if he does pull through.”

The men exchanged glances.

“I suppose you’ll have the police over before long, and—What’s the matter?”

The men were looking sharply down the road.

“I mean they’ll want to question him about the scoundrels who did this work.”

“It warn’t no scoundrels, did it, doctor,” said Caleb Kent, with a vicious snarl.

“But I took it that the keeper had been shot by poachers.”

“It were Cap’n Rolph shot him,” said Caleb, fiercely.

“Dear me! What a sad accident.”

“Accident?” cried Caleb Kent, with an ugly laugh. “Why, I see him lift his gun and take aim. It was just as I was going to hit at him.”

“Nonsense, my lad: his own master.”

“Arn’t no master of his’n now. Sacked nigh three months ago.”

Oldroyd stared.

“Here, I’m getting confused, my man. That poor fellow upstairs is a keeper, isn’t he?”

“Was, sir,” said Caleb Kent, with a grin; “but he arn’t now. He was out with us after the fezzans last night.”

“Hold your tongue,” growled one of the other men.

“Sha’n’t. What for? Doctor won’t tell on us.”

“Then it is as I thought. You are a gang of poachers, and the man upstairs is hand and glove with you.”

“Well, why not, sir. They sacked him, and no one wouldn’t have him, because he used once to do a bit o’ nights hisself ’fore he turned keeper. Man can’t starve when there’s hares and fezzans about.”

“Went a bit like out o’ spite,” said Caleb. “Hadn’t been out with us before.”

“Humph! and you come and fetch me and tell me this,” said Oldroyd. “How do you know that I shall not go and give notice to the police?”

“Cause we know’d better. Caleb here was going to fetch old Blunt from the town; but I says if you fetch him, he’ll go back and tell the police.”

“And how do you know that I shall not?” said Oldroyd, tartly.

“Gent as goes out of his way to tent a poor labrer’s wife when her chap’s out o’ work, and does so much for the old folks, arn’t likely to do such a dirty trick as that. Eh, mates?”

“Humph! you seem to have a pretty good opinion of me,” said Oldroyd.

“Yes, sir, we knows a gen’leman when we sees one. We’ll pay you, sir, all right. You won’t let out on us, seeing how bad the poor fellow is.”

Oldroyd was silent and thoughtful for a few moments, and then he turned sharply upon Caleb Kent.

“Look here, sir,” he said; “you’ve got a tongue and it runs rather too fast. You made an ugly charge against that man’s late master.”

“I said I see him shute him,” said Caleb.

“And you did not see anything of the kind.”

“You gents allus stick up for each other,” muttered Caleb.

“You could not see what took place in the darkness and excitement of a fight, so hold your tongue. Such a charge would make endless mischief, and it must be a mistake.”

“All right, sir,” said Caleb.

“It would upset that poor girl, too, if she heard such a thing.”

“Yes, it would upset her sure enough if she heard,” said Caleb, with a peculiar smile, and he walked away.

“I ought to give you fellows a lecture on the danger of night poaching,” continued Oldroyd.

“Don’t, sir, please,” said one of the men, with a laugh, “for it wouldn’t do no good. ’Sides; we might want to hing a brace o’ fezzans or a hare up agin your door now and then.”

“Here, don’t you do anything of the kind, my lads,” cried Oldroyd. “I forbid it, mind. Now get me my pony.”

“All right, sir; we’ll mind what you says,” said the man who had spoken, looking mirthfully round at his companions, one of whom at once accompanied him to a low shed where the pony was munching some hay. The willing little beast was saddled while Oldroyd walked up and down the path with an abundance of sweet-scented and gay old-fashioned flowers on either side. Carnations and scarlet lychnis, and many-headed sun flowers and the like, were bright in the morning sunshine, for all seemed to have been well tended; but, all at once, he came upon a terrible tell-tale bit of evidence of the last night’s work upon the red bricks that formed the path—one that made him scrape off a little mould from the bed with his foot, and spread it over the ugly patch.

“The cottage looks simple and innocent enough, with its roses, to be the home of peace,” he muttered. “Ah! how man does spoil his life for the sake of coin. Thank you, my lad—that’s right,” he added, as his last night’s messenger brought the pony to the gate.

He mounted, and thrust a coin, that he could not spare, into his temporary ostler’s hand.

“Let him go. Fine morning, isn’t it?”

But Caleb held on sturdily by the pony’s bridle, and thrust the piece back with an air of sturdy independence.

“No, thankye, sir,” he said. “Me and my mates don’t want paying by a gentleman as comes to help one of us. ’Sides which, we’re a-going to pay you; aren’t we, lads?”

“Ay, that’s so,” growled the others. “Don’t take it.”

With the cleverness of a pickpocket, but the reverse action—say of a negative and not a positive pickpocket—the florin was thrust into Oldroyd’s vest, and the man drew back, leaving the doctor to pursue his way.

“Poachers even are not so black as they are painted,” he said to himself as he cantered along, and then he fell to thinking of the girl he had seen that morning. “They’ve better daughters than you would have suspected, more affectionate wives, the best of neighbours, and companions as honest and faithful as one could wish; and, all the while, they are a set of confounded scoundrels and thieves, for it’s just as dishonest to shoot and steal a man’s carefully-raised foreign birds—his pheasants—as it is to break into a hen-roost. As to partridges and hares, of course they are wild things; but, so long as they lived and bred on one’s land, they must be as genuine property as the apples and pears that grow upon a fellow’s trees. Yes, poachers are thieves; and I daresay my friend there, with the shot-hole in his body, is as great a scoundrel as the worst.”

He laughed as he cantered along the soft green beside the road.

“My practice is improving. I shall have my connection amongst the rogues and vagabonds mightily increased, for I certainly shall not go and inform the police: not my business to do that. They’re punished enough, even if I pull him through. And I shall,” he said aloud. “I must and will, for the sake of his pretty daughter. I wonder whether they’ll pay me after all,” he went on, as the pony ambled over the grass, and the naturally sordid ideas of the man often pressed for money and struggling for his income, came uppermost. “When people are in the first throes of excitement and gratitude for the help Doctor Bolus has rendered them, they almost worship him, and they’ll give, or rather they will promise, anything; but when time has had his turn, and the gratitude has begun to cool, it’s a different thing altogether; and, last of all, when the bill goes in—oh dear, for poor human nature, if the case had been left alone, A, B, C, or D would have got better without help.

“Well, never mind,” he said merrily, for the refreshment and the delicious morning air were telling upon his spirits, “the world goes round and round all the same, and human nature is one of the things that cannot be changed.”

He had to turn the pony out on to the road here, for the long green strands of the brambles were hanging right out over the grass, and catching at his legs as he cantered by. The soft mists were floating away as he began to descend the hilly slope, still at his feet the landscape seemed to be half hidden by clouds, through which hillocks, and hedge, and trees were visible, with here and there a house or a brown patch of the rough common land; and right away on the other side, stood up, grim and depressing of aspect, the ugly brick house upon the big hillock of sand, with the various and grim-looking edifices that Moray Alleyne had raised. Forming a background were the sombre fir trees with the column-topped slope and hill; and, even at that distance, he could make out, here and there, portions of the sandy lane that skirted the pine slope, which formed so striking an object in the surrounding landscape.

So beautiful was the scene in the early morning, so varied the tints, that Oldroyd checked his pony, and told himself that he could not do better than pause and admire the landscape. But somehow his eyes lit upon the ugliest object there, focused themselves so as to get the most photographic idea upon the polished plate of his memory, and there they stayed, for he saw nothing else but Mrs Alleyne’s gloomy house.

This, however, is not quite the fact, for in a most absurd way—for a young medical man who had been telling himself a hundred times over that it would be insanity for him to think of marrying—he furnished that gloomy picture with one figure that seemed to him to turn the whole place into a palace of beauty, of whose aspect he could never tire.

“Go along!” he exclaimed aloud at last, as if to himself for his absurd thoughts; but the pony took the order as being applied to the beast of burden present, and went off at once in a good canter, one that gained spirit from the fact that he knew the way and that way was homewards.

So absorbed was Oldroyd that he left the sturdy little animal to itself, and it went pretty swiftly over the driest bits of close, velvety turf, cleverly avoiding the bigger furze clumps, and reaching at last the lighter ground where the fir trees grew. Then it snorted and would have increased its pace, but there were awkward stumps here and there, and slippery places, such as the cleverest pony could not avoid, so the rider drew rein, and let the little steed amble gently along.

All at once Philip Oldroyd’s heart seemed to stand still, and he checked the pony suddenly, sitting breathless and half stunned, gazing straight before him at a couple of figures passing along the road.

He drew a long breath that hissed between his closed teeth; and even a pearl diver might have envied his power of retaining that breath, so long was it before he exhaled it again.

Then he turned his pony’s head, bent down his darkened face till his chin rested upon his breast, and rode forward again; but the pony began to resist a change which suggested going right away from home. He drummed its ribs fiercely with his heels, and pressed it on, but only to turn its head directly after, forcing himself into a state of composure as he rode quietly by Lucy Alleyne and Rolph, and saluted them as he passed.

It was hard work to ride on like that, without looking back, but he mastered himself and went quickly on for some distance before drawing rein, and sitting like a statue upon the pony, which began to graze, and only lifted its head and gave a momentary glance at Lucy, when, sobbing as if she would break her heart, the little lady nearly ran up against the waiting rider and his steed.

“Mr Oldroyd!” cried Lucy, after giving vent to that astonished, frightened “Oh!”

“Yes, Miss Alleyne,” he said coldly, “Mr Oldroyd.”

“Why—why are you stopping me like that? Oh, I beg your pardon; good-morning!” she cried hastily, and in a quick, furtive way she swept the tears from her eyes, and wiped her pretty little nose, which crying was turning of a pinky hue.

“Was I stopping you?” he said, speaking mechanically, and glancing straight before him. “I have been out all night with a patient six miles away.”

“Indeed!” said Lucy, hastily; “yes, it is a beautiful morning.”

She went by him without trusting herself to look in his face.

“If I did so, I should burst out sobbing,” she said to herself.

But by the time Lucy had gone half a score yards, Oldroyd was by her side, the pony keeping step with her, pace for pace, while the little woman’s breast was heaving with love, sorrow and despair.

“What will he think? what will he think?” she kept saying to herself as she longed to lay her hands in his, and to tell him that it was no fault of hers, but an accident that Captain Rolph had met her during her walk.

But she could not tell him—she dared not. It was like a confession that she cared for his opinion more than for that of anybody in the world. It would be unmaidenly, and degrading, and strange; and there was nothing for her to do but assume anger and annoyance, and treat Oldroyd as if he had been playing the part of spy.

A very weak conclusion, no doubt, but it was the only one at which, in her misery, she arrived.

The sun was shining now from a pure, blue sky, the birds were darting beneath the trees, where the long spider webs hung, strung with jewels, that flashed and glowed as they were passing fast away. There was a delicious aroma, too, in the soft breeze that floated from among the gloomy pines; but to those who went on, side by side, it was as if the morning had become overcast; all was stormy and grey, and life was in future to be one long course of desolation and despair. Nature was at her best, and all was beautiful; but Lucy could not see a ray of hope in the far-off future. Philip Oldroyd could see a gloomy, wasted life—the life of a man who had trusted and believed; but to find that the woman was weak and vain as the rest of her sex.

They had relapsed into silence, and were going on pretty swiftly towards The Firs, but their proceedings did not seem to either to be at all strange. Lucy’s destination was, of course, home, and Oldroyd appeared resolved to accompany her; why, he knew not, and it did not trouble him after the first few minutes, seeming quite natural that he should take her to task, and he determined, as a punishment, to see her safely back. She did not deserve it, of that she was sure, but there was something comfortable and satisfactory in being thus silently scolded by one much wiser and stronger than herself.

Oldroyd wished to speak. He had a good deal to say—so he felt, but not a word escaped him till they reached the steep path that ran up to the gates at The Firs, when he drew rein, and made way for Lucy to pass.

“Good-bye,” he said.

“Good-bye,” faltered Lucy, looking at him wistfully.

He looked down into her eyes from where he sat, with his very heart ready to leap from his breast towards her; but, as he gazed, he saw again the sunny sandy road with the velvety grass, and golden-bloomed furze on either side; the long, sloping bank with its columnar pines, and the dark background of sombre green, while in front was Lucy, the girl in whom he had so believed, walking with Rolph; and then all was bitterness and cloud once more.

“He was marked,” thought Oldroyd; “there was a patch of plaister on his forehead. Hang it all! could he have shot that man?”

The doctor’s heart beat fast, for, in a confused fashion, light, the glimmering light upon a reflector when an image plays about the focus of a telescope, he saw difficulties dragging Captain Rolph away from that neighbourhood: a man dying of his wounds, and Lucy Alleyne turning from her idol in utter disgust.

But he shook his head.

“Nothing to me,” he cried, with a bitter laugh, as he rode away. “The old story—Nature asserting herself once more. A fine figure, grand muscles, a chest that is deep and round, and the noble bovine front of a bull, and you have the demi-god gentle woman makes her worship. Ah, well, it was time I awakened from a silly dream. Good-bye, little Lucy, good-bye! Next time I come to see your brother, I’ll wear the armoured jerkin of common sense. What a weak idiot I have been.”

There were no mushrooms that morning for Mrs Alleyne’s breakfast; those which Lucy should have brought home lying by the wayside, whereat the slugs rejoiced and had a glorious banquet all to themselves.

Volume Two—Chapter Nine.The Major Happens to be there.A poaching affray was too common an affair in the neighbourhood of Brackley to make much stir. Sir John went in for two or three discussions with his keepers, and the rural policeman had been summoned, this worthy feeling sure that he would be able—in his own words—to put his hand upon the parties; but though the officer might have had the ability to put his hand upon the parties, he did not do so, or if he did, he forgot to close it. Then the dog was buried, and as a set off, Sir John had a fire made of the nets and stakes that had been taken from the gang; these, and their spoil of several brace of pheasants and partridges and a few hares, having been left behind in their hurried flight.So, as it happened, the active and intelligent constable made no discoveries; but Rolph did, and whereas the one would have revelled in the hopes of promotion, and in seeing his name several times in the county paper; the other, when he had made his discovery, said only—and to himself—that it was “doosid awkward,” and held his peace.“I never did see such a girl as you are to read,” said Rolph, entering the drawing-room one afternoon, when he had ridden over from Aldershot; “at it again.”He spoke lightly and merrily, and Glynne hastily put aside her book, and rose from her chair.“Did you want me to go out for a ride, Robert?” she said rather eagerly.“Well, no; not this afternoon.”The smile Glynne had called up, and which came with an unbidden flush, died out slowly, and a look of calmness, even of relief, dawned upon her countenance as the young man went on.“Thought you wouldn’t mind if we didn’t go this afternoon. Looks a bit doubtful, too. Quite fine, now, but the weather does change so rapidly.”“Does it?” said Glynne, looking at him rather wistfully.“Yes. I think it’s the pine woods. High trees. Attract moisture. Don’t say it is, dear. I’m not big at that sort of thing, but we do have a deal of rain here.”“Why, papa was complaining the other day about want of water,” said Glynne, smiling.“Ah, that was for his turnips. They want rain. You won’t be disappointed?”“I?—oh, no,” said Glynne, quietly.“Think I’ll do a bit of training this afternoon. I’m not quite up to the mark.”“Are you always going to train so much, dear?” said Glynne, thoughtfully.“Always? Eh? Always? Oh, no; of course not; but it’s a man’s duty to get himself up to the very highest pitch of health and strength. But if you’d set your mind upon a ride, we’ll go.”“I?—oh, no,” said Glynne. “I thought you wished it, dear.”“That’s all right then,” said Rolph, cheerfully. “By-bye, beauty,” he said, kissing her. “I say, Glynne, ’pon my word, I think you are the most lovely woman I ever saw.”She smiled at him as he turned at the doorway, nodding back at her, and she remained fixed to the spot as the captain, cigar in mouth, passed directly after, turning to kiss his hand as he saw her dimly through the window.For Glynne did not run across the room to stand and watch him till he was out of sight, but remained where he had left her, with a couple of dull red spots glowing in her cheeks for a time, and then dying slowly out, leaving her very pale.Glynne was thinking deeply, and it was evident that her thoughts were giving her pain, for her eyes darkened, then half-closed, and she slowly walked up and down the room a few times, and then returned to her chair, to bend over, rest her head upon her hand, and sit gazing straight before her at the soft carpet, remaining almost motionless for quite half-an-hour, when she sighed deeply, took up her book, and continued reading.Rolph went right off at once through the park and out across the long meadow and into the fir wood, where, as if led by some feeling of attraction, he made for the spot where the encounter had taken place a week before, and stopped for a few minutes to gaze at the ground, as if he expected to see the traces still there.“Tchah!” he exclaimed, impatiently; “it was an accident. Guns will go off sometimes.”He wrenched himself away, walking on amongst the trees rapidly for a time, and then stopped to relight his cigar, whose near end was a good deal gnawed and shortened.“Tchah!” he ejaculated again. “I won’t think of it. Just as well blame oneself, if a fellow in one’s troop goes down, and breaks his leg in a charge.”He puffed furiously at his cigar as he went on, and then forgot it again, so that it went out, and he threw it away impatiently, thrust his hands into his pockets, and walked as fast as the nature of the ground would permit.For, evidently with the idea of giving himself a very severe course of training, he kept in the woods where the pathways were rugged and winding and so little frequented that at times the young growth crossed, switching his hat or face, and often having to be beaten back by the hands which he unwillingly withdrew from his pockets.Rolph probably meant to reach some particular spot before he turned, for twice over he crossed a lane, and instead of taking advantage of the better path afforded, he plunged again into the woods and went on.At the end of an hour he came upon another lane more solitary and unused than those he had passed. It was a mere track occasionally used by the woodcutters for a timber wagon, and the marks of the broad wheels were here and there visible in the white sand, which as a rule trickled down into all depressions, fine as that in an hour-glass, and hid the marks left by man.“Rather warm,” muttered Rolph as he was crossing the sandy track; and he was in the act of charging up the bank on the other side, when there was a cheery hail, and as he turned with an angry ejaculation, he became aware of the fact that Sir John was coming along the lane upon one of his ponies, whose tread was unheard in the soft sand.“Why, hullo, Rob, where are you going?” cried the baronet. “You look like a lost man in a forest.”“Do I? oh, only having a good breather. Getting a little too much fat. Must keep myself down. Ride very heavy with all my accoutrements.”“Hah! Yes. You’re a big fellow,” said Sir John, looking at him rather fixedly. “Why didn’t you have the horses out, then, and take Glynne for a ride?”“Glynne? By Jove, sir, I did propose it, only she had got a book in the drawing-room.”“Damn the books!” cried Sir John, pettishly. “She reads too much. But, hang it all, Rob, my lad, don’t let her grow into a bookworm because she’s engaged. She’s not half the girl she was before this fixture, as you’d call it, was made.”“Well, really, I—”“Yes, yes, I know what you’d say. You do your best. But, hang it all, don’t let her mope, and be always indoors. Plenty of time for that when there are half-a-dozen children in the nursery, eh? Coming back my way?”“No. Oh, no,” cried Rolph, hastily; “I must finish my walk. I shall take a short cut back. Been for a ride?”“I? Pooh! I don’t go for rides, my lad. I’ve been to see my sheep on the hills, and I’ve another lot to see. There, good-bye till dinner-time, if you won’t come.”He touched his pony’s ribs and cantered off. Rolph plunging into the wood, and hastily glancing at his watch as he hurried on.“Lovers are different to what they were when I was a young fellow,” said Sir John. “We were a bit chivalrous and attentive then. Pooh! So they are now. There’s no harm in the lad. It isn’t such a bad thing to keep his body in a state of perfection—real perfection of health and strength. Makes a young fellow moral and pure-minded; but I wish he would devote himself more to Glynne. Take her out more; she looks too pale.”“Hang him! I wish he had been at Jericho,” muttered the subject of Sir John’s thoughts. “Let’s see, I can keep along all the way in the woods now. I sha’n’t meet any one there.”The prophecy concerning people held good for a quarter of an hour or so, and then, turning rapidly into an open fir glade, Rolph found out that being prophetic does not pay without a long preliminary preparation, and an ingenious consideration of probabilities and the like, for he suddenly came plump upon the major, stooping down, trowel in hand—so suddenly, in fact, that he nearly fell over him, and the two started back, the one with a muttered oath, the other with words of surprise.“Why, I didn’t expect to find you in this out-of-the-way place,” said the major.“By Jove, that’s just what I was going to say,” cried Rolph.“Not raw beef-steaks this time, is it?” said the major with a grim look full of contempt.“Steaks—raw steaks. I don’t understand you.”“This is rough woodland; you are not training now, are you?” said the major, carefully placing what looked like a handful of dirty little blackish potatoes in his fishing creel.“Training? Well, yes, of course I am. Keeping myself up to the mark,” retorted Rolph. “A soldier, in my opinion, ought to be the very perfection of manly strength.”“Well, yes,” said the major, rubbing the soil off one of his dirty little truffles, and then polishing his bright little steel trowel with a piece of newspaper, “but the men of my time did pretty well with no other training than their military drill.”“Autres—I forget the rest,” said Rolph. “I never was good at French. It means other fellows had other manners in other times, major. Got a good haul of toadstools?”“No, sir, I have not got a good haul of toadstools to-day; but I have unearthed a few truffles. Should you like a dish for dinner?”“Thanks, no. Not coming my way, I suppose?”“No,” said the major. “I think I shall trudge back.”“Ho!” exclaimed Rolph. “Well, then, I’ll sayta-ta, till dinner-time;” and he went off at a good swinging pace.“Almost looks as if they were watching me,” muttered the young officer, as he trudged on. “Tchah! no! The old boys wouldn’t do that, either of them;” and he turned into one of the thickest portions of the wood.The major kept on rubbing his little steel trowel till long after it was dry, and then slowly sheathed it, as if it were a sword, before going thoughtfully on hunting up various specimens of the singular plants that he made his study.“It’s very curious,” he mused, “very. Women are unmistakably enigmas, and I suppose that things must take their course. Bless me! I must want some of his training. It’s very warm.”He stopped, took out his handkerchief, a genuine Indian bandanna, that he had brought home himself years ago, and now very soft and pleasant to the touch, but decidedly the worse for wear. He wiped his face, took off his hat, and had a good dab at his forehead, and then, after a few minutes’ search round the bole of a huge beech, whose bark was ornamented with patches of lovely cream and grey lichens, he stopped short to look at a great broad buttress-like root, which spread itself in so tempting a way that it suggested a comfortable garden seat, a great favourite of the major’s. Then, with a smile of satisfaction, the old man sat down, shuffled himself about a little, and finally found it so agreeable, with his back resting against the tree, that he fell into a placid state of musing on the various specimens he had collected; from them he began to think of his niece, then of Lucy Alleyne, and then of Rolph, returning to his niece by a natural sequence, and then thinking extremely deeply of nothing.It was wonderfully quiet out there in the woods. Now and then a bird chirped, and the harsh caw of a rook, softened by distance, was heard. Anon there came a tap on the ground, as if something had fallen from high up in the big tree, and then, after a pause, there was a rustle and swishing about of twigs and leaves, as something bounded from bough to bough, ran lightly along the bigger branches, and finally stopped, gazing with bright, dark eyes at the sleeping intruder. The latter made no sign, so after a while, the squirrel gave its beautiful, bushy tail a few twitches, uttered a low, impatient sound that resembled the chopping of wood on a block, and then scurried down the bole of the tree, picked up something, and ran off.Soon after a rabbit came cantering among the leaves, sat up, raising it ears stiffly above its head, drooped its fore paws, and stared in turn at the sleeper, till, gaining confidence from his motionless position, it played about, ran round, gave two or three leaps from the ground, and then proceeded to nibble at various succulent herbs that grew just outside the drip from the branches of the beech.The rabbit disappeared in turn, and after picking up a worm that had slipped out of the ground, consequent upon the rabbit having given a few scratches, in one place, a round-eyed robin flitted to a low, bare twig of the beech, and sat inspecting the major, as if he were one of the children lost in the wood, and it was necessary to calculate how many leaves it would take to cover him before the task was commenced.The delicious, scented silence of the wood continued for long enough, and then closely following each other, with a peculiarly silent flight, half-a-dozen grey birds came down a green arcade straight for the great beech, where one of them, with vivid blue edges to its wings, all lined with black, and a fierce black pair of moustachios, set up its loose, speckled, warm grey crest, and uttered a most demonically harsh cry of “schah-tchah-tchah!” taking flight at once, followed by its companions, giving vent to the same harsh scream in reply, and making the major start from his nap, spring up, and stare about.“Jays!” he cried. “Bless my soul, I must have been asleep.”He pulled out his watch, glanced at it, muttered something about “a good hour,” which really was under the mark, and then, after a glance at his specimens and a re-arrangement of his creel, he started to trudge back to the Hall, but stopped and hesitated.“Too far that way,” he said. “I’ll try the road and the common.”He glanced at the tiny pocket compass attached to his watch-chain, and started off once more in a fresh direction, one which he knew would bring him out on the road near Lindham. The path he soon found was one evidently rarely used, and deliciously soft and mossy to his feet, as, refreshed by his nap, he went steadily on, following the windings till he stopped short wonderingly, surprised by eye and ear, for as he went round a sudden turn it was to find himself within a yard or two of a girl seated on the mossy ground, her arms clasping her knees, and her face bent down upon them, sobbing as if her heart would break.“My good girl,” cried the chivalrous major eagerly.Before he could say more, the woman’s head was raised, so that in the glance he obtained he saw that she was young, dark and handsome, in spite of her red and swollen eyes, dishevelled, dark hair, and countenance generally disfigured by a passionate burst of crying.For a moment the girl seemed about to bound up and run; but she checked the impulse, clasped her knees once more, and hid her face upon them.“Why, I ought to know your face,” said the major. “Mr Rolph’s keeper’s daughter, if I am not mistaken?”There was no reply, only a closer hiding of the face, and a shiver.“Can I do anything for you?” said the major kindly. “Is anything the matter?”“No. Go away!” cried the girl in low, muffled tones.“But you are in trouble.”“Go away!” cried the girl fiercely; and this she reiterated so bitterly that the major shrugged his shoulders and moved off a step or two.“Are you sure I cannot assist you?” said the major, hesitating about leaving the girl in her trouble.“Go away, I tell you.”“Well then, will you tell me where to find the Lindham road?”For answer she averted her head from him and pointed in one direction. This he followed, found the road and the open common, coming out close to a cottage to which he directed his steps in search of a cup of water.The door was half open, and as soon as his steps approached, an old woman’s sharp voice exclaimed,—“Ah, you’ve come back then, you hussy! Who was that came and called you out, eh?”“You are making a mistake,” said the major quietly. “I came to ask if I could have a glass of water?”“Oh yes, come in, whoever you are, if you ar’n’t afraid to see an ugly old woman lying in bed. I thought it was my grandchild. Who are you?”“I come from Brackley,” said the major, smiling down at the crotchety old thing in the bed.“Do you? oh, then I know you. Your one of old Sir John Day’s boys. Be you the one who went sojering?”“Yes, I’m the one,” said the major, smiling.“Ah, you’ve growed since then. My master pointed you out to me one day on your pony. Yes, to be sure, you was curly-headed then. There, you can take some water; it’s in the brown pitcher, and yonder’s a mug. It was fresh from the well two hours ago. That gal had just fetched it when some one throwed a stone at the door, and she went out to see who threw it, she said. Ah, she don’t cheat me, a hussy. She knowed, and I mean to know. It was some chap, that’s who it was, some chap—Caleb Kent maybe—and I’m not going to have her come pretending to do for me, and be running after gipsy chaps.”“No, you must take care of the young folks,” said the major. “What beautiful water!”“Yes, my master dug that well himself, down to the stone, and it’s beautiful water. Have another mug? That’s right. You needn’t give me anything for it without you like; but a shilling comes in very useful to get a bit o’ tea. I often wish we could grow tea in one’s own garden.”“It would be handy,” said the major. “There’s half-a-crown for you, old lady. It’s a shame that you should not have your bit of tea. Good-bye.”“Good-bye to you, and thank you kindly,” cried the old woman; “and if you see that slut of a girl just you send her on to me.”“I will,” he said. “Good-bye.”“Good-bye,” shrieked the old woman; and as the major passed out of the gate, the shrill voice came after him, “Mind you send her on if you see her.”The words reached a second pair of ears, those of Judith, who flushed up hot and angry as she found herself once more in the presence of the major.“You’ve been telling her about me,” she cried fiercely. “It’s cowardly; it’s cruel.”She stood up before him so flushed and handsome that the major felt as it were the whole of her little story.“No,” he said quietly, “I have not told your grandmother about you; she has been telling me.”With an angry, indignant look the girl swept by him and entered the cottage.“Poor lass, she is very handsome,” said the major to himself, “and it seems as if her bit of life romance is not going so smoothly as it should. Hah! that was a capital drop of water; it gives one life. Crying in the woods, eh—after a signal that the old lady heard. Gipsy lad, eh? Bad sign—bad sign. Ah, well,” he added, with a sigh, “I’m getting too old a man to think of love affairs; but, somehow, I often wonder now that I did not marry.”That thought came to him several times as he walked homeward over the boggy common, and rose again more strongly as he came in sight of The Firs and the grim, black mansion on the hillock. Fort Science, as he had jestingly called it, looked at times bright and sunny, and then dull, repulsive and cold.The major reached home after his very long walk rather out of spirits; and his valet, unasked, fetched him a cup of tea.

A poaching affray was too common an affair in the neighbourhood of Brackley to make much stir. Sir John went in for two or three discussions with his keepers, and the rural policeman had been summoned, this worthy feeling sure that he would be able—in his own words—to put his hand upon the parties; but though the officer might have had the ability to put his hand upon the parties, he did not do so, or if he did, he forgot to close it. Then the dog was buried, and as a set off, Sir John had a fire made of the nets and stakes that had been taken from the gang; these, and their spoil of several brace of pheasants and partridges and a few hares, having been left behind in their hurried flight.

So, as it happened, the active and intelligent constable made no discoveries; but Rolph did, and whereas the one would have revelled in the hopes of promotion, and in seeing his name several times in the county paper; the other, when he had made his discovery, said only—and to himself—that it was “doosid awkward,” and held his peace.

“I never did see such a girl as you are to read,” said Rolph, entering the drawing-room one afternoon, when he had ridden over from Aldershot; “at it again.”

He spoke lightly and merrily, and Glynne hastily put aside her book, and rose from her chair.

“Did you want me to go out for a ride, Robert?” she said rather eagerly.

“Well, no; not this afternoon.”

The smile Glynne had called up, and which came with an unbidden flush, died out slowly, and a look of calmness, even of relief, dawned upon her countenance as the young man went on.

“Thought you wouldn’t mind if we didn’t go this afternoon. Looks a bit doubtful, too. Quite fine, now, but the weather does change so rapidly.”

“Does it?” said Glynne, looking at him rather wistfully.

“Yes. I think it’s the pine woods. High trees. Attract moisture. Don’t say it is, dear. I’m not big at that sort of thing, but we do have a deal of rain here.”

“Why, papa was complaining the other day about want of water,” said Glynne, smiling.

“Ah, that was for his turnips. They want rain. You won’t be disappointed?”

“I?—oh, no,” said Glynne, quietly.

“Think I’ll do a bit of training this afternoon. I’m not quite up to the mark.”

“Are you always going to train so much, dear?” said Glynne, thoughtfully.

“Always? Eh? Always? Oh, no; of course not; but it’s a man’s duty to get himself up to the very highest pitch of health and strength. But if you’d set your mind upon a ride, we’ll go.”

“I?—oh, no,” said Glynne. “I thought you wished it, dear.”

“That’s all right then,” said Rolph, cheerfully. “By-bye, beauty,” he said, kissing her. “I say, Glynne, ’pon my word, I think you are the most lovely woman I ever saw.”

She smiled at him as he turned at the doorway, nodding back at her, and she remained fixed to the spot as the captain, cigar in mouth, passed directly after, turning to kiss his hand as he saw her dimly through the window.

For Glynne did not run across the room to stand and watch him till he was out of sight, but remained where he had left her, with a couple of dull red spots glowing in her cheeks for a time, and then dying slowly out, leaving her very pale.

Glynne was thinking deeply, and it was evident that her thoughts were giving her pain, for her eyes darkened, then half-closed, and she slowly walked up and down the room a few times, and then returned to her chair, to bend over, rest her head upon her hand, and sit gazing straight before her at the soft carpet, remaining almost motionless for quite half-an-hour, when she sighed deeply, took up her book, and continued reading.

Rolph went right off at once through the park and out across the long meadow and into the fir wood, where, as if led by some feeling of attraction, he made for the spot where the encounter had taken place a week before, and stopped for a few minutes to gaze at the ground, as if he expected to see the traces still there.

“Tchah!” he exclaimed, impatiently; “it was an accident. Guns will go off sometimes.”

He wrenched himself away, walking on amongst the trees rapidly for a time, and then stopped to relight his cigar, whose near end was a good deal gnawed and shortened.

“Tchah!” he ejaculated again. “I won’t think of it. Just as well blame oneself, if a fellow in one’s troop goes down, and breaks his leg in a charge.”

He puffed furiously at his cigar as he went on, and then forgot it again, so that it went out, and he threw it away impatiently, thrust his hands into his pockets, and walked as fast as the nature of the ground would permit.

For, evidently with the idea of giving himself a very severe course of training, he kept in the woods where the pathways were rugged and winding and so little frequented that at times the young growth crossed, switching his hat or face, and often having to be beaten back by the hands which he unwillingly withdrew from his pockets.

Rolph probably meant to reach some particular spot before he turned, for twice over he crossed a lane, and instead of taking advantage of the better path afforded, he plunged again into the woods and went on.

At the end of an hour he came upon another lane more solitary and unused than those he had passed. It was a mere track occasionally used by the woodcutters for a timber wagon, and the marks of the broad wheels were here and there visible in the white sand, which as a rule trickled down into all depressions, fine as that in an hour-glass, and hid the marks left by man.

“Rather warm,” muttered Rolph as he was crossing the sandy track; and he was in the act of charging up the bank on the other side, when there was a cheery hail, and as he turned with an angry ejaculation, he became aware of the fact that Sir John was coming along the lane upon one of his ponies, whose tread was unheard in the soft sand.

“Why, hullo, Rob, where are you going?” cried the baronet. “You look like a lost man in a forest.”

“Do I? oh, only having a good breather. Getting a little too much fat. Must keep myself down. Ride very heavy with all my accoutrements.”

“Hah! Yes. You’re a big fellow,” said Sir John, looking at him rather fixedly. “Why didn’t you have the horses out, then, and take Glynne for a ride?”

“Glynne? By Jove, sir, I did propose it, only she had got a book in the drawing-room.”

“Damn the books!” cried Sir John, pettishly. “She reads too much. But, hang it all, Rob, my lad, don’t let her grow into a bookworm because she’s engaged. She’s not half the girl she was before this fixture, as you’d call it, was made.”

“Well, really, I—”

“Yes, yes, I know what you’d say. You do your best. But, hang it all, don’t let her mope, and be always indoors. Plenty of time for that when there are half-a-dozen children in the nursery, eh? Coming back my way?”

“No. Oh, no,” cried Rolph, hastily; “I must finish my walk. I shall take a short cut back. Been for a ride?”

“I? Pooh! I don’t go for rides, my lad. I’ve been to see my sheep on the hills, and I’ve another lot to see. There, good-bye till dinner-time, if you won’t come.”

He touched his pony’s ribs and cantered off. Rolph plunging into the wood, and hastily glancing at his watch as he hurried on.

“Lovers are different to what they were when I was a young fellow,” said Sir John. “We were a bit chivalrous and attentive then. Pooh! So they are now. There’s no harm in the lad. It isn’t such a bad thing to keep his body in a state of perfection—real perfection of health and strength. Makes a young fellow moral and pure-minded; but I wish he would devote himself more to Glynne. Take her out more; she looks too pale.”

“Hang him! I wish he had been at Jericho,” muttered the subject of Sir John’s thoughts. “Let’s see, I can keep along all the way in the woods now. I sha’n’t meet any one there.”

The prophecy concerning people held good for a quarter of an hour or so, and then, turning rapidly into an open fir glade, Rolph found out that being prophetic does not pay without a long preliminary preparation, and an ingenious consideration of probabilities and the like, for he suddenly came plump upon the major, stooping down, trowel in hand—so suddenly, in fact, that he nearly fell over him, and the two started back, the one with a muttered oath, the other with words of surprise.

“Why, I didn’t expect to find you in this out-of-the-way place,” said the major.

“By Jove, that’s just what I was going to say,” cried Rolph.

“Not raw beef-steaks this time, is it?” said the major with a grim look full of contempt.

“Steaks—raw steaks. I don’t understand you.”

“This is rough woodland; you are not training now, are you?” said the major, carefully placing what looked like a handful of dirty little blackish potatoes in his fishing creel.

“Training? Well, yes, of course I am. Keeping myself up to the mark,” retorted Rolph. “A soldier, in my opinion, ought to be the very perfection of manly strength.”

“Well, yes,” said the major, rubbing the soil off one of his dirty little truffles, and then polishing his bright little steel trowel with a piece of newspaper, “but the men of my time did pretty well with no other training than their military drill.”

“Autres—I forget the rest,” said Rolph. “I never was good at French. It means other fellows had other manners in other times, major. Got a good haul of toadstools?”

“No, sir, I have not got a good haul of toadstools to-day; but I have unearthed a few truffles. Should you like a dish for dinner?”

“Thanks, no. Not coming my way, I suppose?”

“No,” said the major. “I think I shall trudge back.”

“Ho!” exclaimed Rolph. “Well, then, I’ll sayta-ta, till dinner-time;” and he went off at a good swinging pace.

“Almost looks as if they were watching me,” muttered the young officer, as he trudged on. “Tchah! no! The old boys wouldn’t do that, either of them;” and he turned into one of the thickest portions of the wood.

The major kept on rubbing his little steel trowel till long after it was dry, and then slowly sheathed it, as if it were a sword, before going thoughtfully on hunting up various specimens of the singular plants that he made his study.

“It’s very curious,” he mused, “very. Women are unmistakably enigmas, and I suppose that things must take their course. Bless me! I must want some of his training. It’s very warm.”

He stopped, took out his handkerchief, a genuine Indian bandanna, that he had brought home himself years ago, and now very soft and pleasant to the touch, but decidedly the worse for wear. He wiped his face, took off his hat, and had a good dab at his forehead, and then, after a few minutes’ search round the bole of a huge beech, whose bark was ornamented with patches of lovely cream and grey lichens, he stopped short to look at a great broad buttress-like root, which spread itself in so tempting a way that it suggested a comfortable garden seat, a great favourite of the major’s. Then, with a smile of satisfaction, the old man sat down, shuffled himself about a little, and finally found it so agreeable, with his back resting against the tree, that he fell into a placid state of musing on the various specimens he had collected; from them he began to think of his niece, then of Lucy Alleyne, and then of Rolph, returning to his niece by a natural sequence, and then thinking extremely deeply of nothing.

It was wonderfully quiet out there in the woods. Now and then a bird chirped, and the harsh caw of a rook, softened by distance, was heard. Anon there came a tap on the ground, as if something had fallen from high up in the big tree, and then, after a pause, there was a rustle and swishing about of twigs and leaves, as something bounded from bough to bough, ran lightly along the bigger branches, and finally stopped, gazing with bright, dark eyes at the sleeping intruder. The latter made no sign, so after a while, the squirrel gave its beautiful, bushy tail a few twitches, uttered a low, impatient sound that resembled the chopping of wood on a block, and then scurried down the bole of the tree, picked up something, and ran off.

Soon after a rabbit came cantering among the leaves, sat up, raising it ears stiffly above its head, drooped its fore paws, and stared in turn at the sleeper, till, gaining confidence from his motionless position, it played about, ran round, gave two or three leaps from the ground, and then proceeded to nibble at various succulent herbs that grew just outside the drip from the branches of the beech.

The rabbit disappeared in turn, and after picking up a worm that had slipped out of the ground, consequent upon the rabbit having given a few scratches, in one place, a round-eyed robin flitted to a low, bare twig of the beech, and sat inspecting the major, as if he were one of the children lost in the wood, and it was necessary to calculate how many leaves it would take to cover him before the task was commenced.

The delicious, scented silence of the wood continued for long enough, and then closely following each other, with a peculiarly silent flight, half-a-dozen grey birds came down a green arcade straight for the great beech, where one of them, with vivid blue edges to its wings, all lined with black, and a fierce black pair of moustachios, set up its loose, speckled, warm grey crest, and uttered a most demonically harsh cry of “schah-tchah-tchah!” taking flight at once, followed by its companions, giving vent to the same harsh scream in reply, and making the major start from his nap, spring up, and stare about.

“Jays!” he cried. “Bless my soul, I must have been asleep.”

He pulled out his watch, glanced at it, muttered something about “a good hour,” which really was under the mark, and then, after a glance at his specimens and a re-arrangement of his creel, he started to trudge back to the Hall, but stopped and hesitated.

“Too far that way,” he said. “I’ll try the road and the common.”

He glanced at the tiny pocket compass attached to his watch-chain, and started off once more in a fresh direction, one which he knew would bring him out on the road near Lindham. The path he soon found was one evidently rarely used, and deliciously soft and mossy to his feet, as, refreshed by his nap, he went steadily on, following the windings till he stopped short wonderingly, surprised by eye and ear, for as he went round a sudden turn it was to find himself within a yard or two of a girl seated on the mossy ground, her arms clasping her knees, and her face bent down upon them, sobbing as if her heart would break.

“My good girl,” cried the chivalrous major eagerly.

Before he could say more, the woman’s head was raised, so that in the glance he obtained he saw that she was young, dark and handsome, in spite of her red and swollen eyes, dishevelled, dark hair, and countenance generally disfigured by a passionate burst of crying.

For a moment the girl seemed about to bound up and run; but she checked the impulse, clasped her knees once more, and hid her face upon them.

“Why, I ought to know your face,” said the major. “Mr Rolph’s keeper’s daughter, if I am not mistaken?”

There was no reply, only a closer hiding of the face, and a shiver.

“Can I do anything for you?” said the major kindly. “Is anything the matter?”

“No. Go away!” cried the girl in low, muffled tones.

“But you are in trouble.”

“Go away!” cried the girl fiercely; and this she reiterated so bitterly that the major shrugged his shoulders and moved off a step or two.

“Are you sure I cannot assist you?” said the major, hesitating about leaving the girl in her trouble.

“Go away, I tell you.”

“Well then, will you tell me where to find the Lindham road?”

For answer she averted her head from him and pointed in one direction. This he followed, found the road and the open common, coming out close to a cottage to which he directed his steps in search of a cup of water.

The door was half open, and as soon as his steps approached, an old woman’s sharp voice exclaimed,—

“Ah, you’ve come back then, you hussy! Who was that came and called you out, eh?”

“You are making a mistake,” said the major quietly. “I came to ask if I could have a glass of water?”

“Oh yes, come in, whoever you are, if you ar’n’t afraid to see an ugly old woman lying in bed. I thought it was my grandchild. Who are you?”

“I come from Brackley,” said the major, smiling down at the crotchety old thing in the bed.

“Do you? oh, then I know you. Your one of old Sir John Day’s boys. Be you the one who went sojering?”

“Yes, I’m the one,” said the major, smiling.

“Ah, you’ve growed since then. My master pointed you out to me one day on your pony. Yes, to be sure, you was curly-headed then. There, you can take some water; it’s in the brown pitcher, and yonder’s a mug. It was fresh from the well two hours ago. That gal had just fetched it when some one throwed a stone at the door, and she went out to see who threw it, she said. Ah, she don’t cheat me, a hussy. She knowed, and I mean to know. It was some chap, that’s who it was, some chap—Caleb Kent maybe—and I’m not going to have her come pretending to do for me, and be running after gipsy chaps.”

“No, you must take care of the young folks,” said the major. “What beautiful water!”

“Yes, my master dug that well himself, down to the stone, and it’s beautiful water. Have another mug? That’s right. You needn’t give me anything for it without you like; but a shilling comes in very useful to get a bit o’ tea. I often wish we could grow tea in one’s own garden.”

“It would be handy,” said the major. “There’s half-a-crown for you, old lady. It’s a shame that you should not have your bit of tea. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye to you, and thank you kindly,” cried the old woman; “and if you see that slut of a girl just you send her on to me.”

“I will,” he said. “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” shrieked the old woman; and as the major passed out of the gate, the shrill voice came after him, “Mind you send her on if you see her.”

The words reached a second pair of ears, those of Judith, who flushed up hot and angry as she found herself once more in the presence of the major.

“You’ve been telling her about me,” she cried fiercely. “It’s cowardly; it’s cruel.”

She stood up before him so flushed and handsome that the major felt as it were the whole of her little story.

“No,” he said quietly, “I have not told your grandmother about you; she has been telling me.”

With an angry, indignant look the girl swept by him and entered the cottage.

“Poor lass, she is very handsome,” said the major to himself, “and it seems as if her bit of life romance is not going so smoothly as it should. Hah! that was a capital drop of water; it gives one life. Crying in the woods, eh—after a signal that the old lady heard. Gipsy lad, eh? Bad sign—bad sign. Ah, well,” he added, with a sigh, “I’m getting too old a man to think of love affairs; but, somehow, I often wonder now that I did not marry.”

That thought came to him several times as he walked homeward over the boggy common, and rose again more strongly as he came in sight of The Firs and the grim, black mansion on the hillock. Fort Science, as he had jestingly called it, looked at times bright and sunny, and then dull, repulsive and cold.

The major reached home after his very long walk rather out of spirits; and his valet, unasked, fetched him a cup of tea.

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